


Someone Like You

by seastarved



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Season 4 Finale, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seastarved/pseuds/seastarved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But what happens after the end of the story? What happens when the heroes lose and the villains win and nobody at all is happy? Perhaps you write a new ending. Perhaps the story goes on.</p><p>(Canon Divergence from the Season 4 finale)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stories are simple. They have a beginning, a middle and an end. Stories have structure and syntax and plot. They have an ebb and a flow. A music. A rhythm.

They are not this. Breaths shallow, heart fast and running, running,  _running_.

They are not holding on to a small hand with a desperation that is splitting at the seams. They are not hiding under the giant roots of a tree trying to quiet the thudding of your heart, so the horses galloping a storm above your head don't hear. They are not watching every happy ending fall apart in front of your eyes as you stand there with a bloody sword and a dead man at your feet.

There is no poetry in running.

* * *

A smear of blood on the cobblestones and an abandoned knife are all that are left of the man she loves.

Loved.

And as she stares at the streak of red marring the ground, she wishes she could go back to before. To the blissful lack of thought brought on by adrenaline. To when all there was, was the immediate. The world stopping as Rumplestiltskin's sword slowly descended upon her son. The scream caught in her throat as she had rushed to deflect the blow. The wedding bells ringing out, slow and unhurried, telling them that they had failed. The sound of a quill snapping in half, their last hope fading with a soft click. Her hand crushing Henry's as they had run from her parents.

Her world reduced to basics.

But later, standing in Regina's hideout, the air filled with harsh breaths and shaky voices, it had all come crashing down. His face as that last breath whooshed out of his body, his mouth trying to form her name as he faded away. She had run again then, pushing her legs farther than they could manage. Slipping quickly and easily back into her sharp focus on the now.

_Find Killian. Find Killian. Find Killian._

She had kept up the chant, focussing on the words and trying to drown out the voice whispering in the darkest corners of her mind.

_Find his body_

But, she is here now and there is nothing left of him. Nothing left for her to mourn, no keepsake to steal away, nothing physical, tangible to remind her that he had existed.

That he had loved her.

Nothing but the abandoned knife, his blood on its blade, her father's touch in its hilt. She moves to pick it up, her hand hovering over it before falling away. She can't–

Her heart feels like it is about to burst, growing and growing in her chest. All she has left now are the ghost of his smile, the shadow of his kiss, nebulous memories that could change and warp and shift until one day she will wake up wondering what his laugh had sounded like.

Her eyes close as she tries to calm her suddenly erratic breathing, a sob threatening to escape her throat, her arms wrapped around her middle as her corset begins to feel too tight. She pulls it away from her chest, pinching at the fabric just below her breastbone.

She wishes that she could go back to before. To the convenience of desperation, to the immediacy of danger. Back to when her mind wasn't clawing with fake memories of being trapped in a tower all her life, when it wasn't grappling to hold on to the sound of his voice, to the heat of his skin, to somehow keep the image of him alive and true in her heart.

Abruptly, all the things that she had forced herself to ignore before, come back to her. The foreignness of her clothes, the smells in the air, the sounds. The pants she wears tied at the waist, her hair held up by a piece of ribbon, her boots pinching at her feet. The feel of the wall she braces herself against too rough, the scent of the food wafting towards her from the nearby market too rich.

She feels like a child caught in a nightmare, a scream bubbling within her, morphing along the way into shuddering gasp as she realises that there's no way out.

He's gone.

And he's taken a piece of her with him.

* * *

"Milady? Swan?"

Her eyes are closed still, her breathing only just calming down when she hears it. His voice is odd. Strained and soft, it curls differently around the sounds of her name.

 _"A hallucination,"_  she thinks,  _"wonderful."_

That was quick. She'd hoped it would take some time before she began to hear him. Something between a sob and a laugh escapes her as she turns. Perhaps some part of her mind was trying to give her this comfort, give her the chance to look upon him one more time.

There he stands, an arms length away from her, his hand stretched out to touch her shoulder but because she had turned, it now hovers near her cheek. And it is the heat of it, the same absurd heat that he always seems to radiate, that breaks her out of her trance. Every nerve ending alive with feeling as she realises that the man standing in front of her is flesh and blood.

She all but jumps him then, her arms around his neck, her tears softly staining his vest as she breathes him in. His scent, his presence, his warmth, his solidity.

She's held him a thousand times before and it is almost always the same. His arms slowly coming around her, pulling her just that tiny inch closer until there is no space between them. His nose nuzzling at her jaw, his lips soft on her neck, his smile pressed against her skin. He holds her like she is something precious, like there is nowhere in the world he'd rather be than here.

Or at least, he used to.

Now, there is only a sharp inhale as her arms come around him, his own stiff at his sides. A small, uncomfortable noise rising from the back of his throat. She holds him tighter instinctively, as though hoping that her desperation would be enough to make him respond. But all it does is make him flinch and pull away with a gasp.

Her eyes still shining, she notices the bandage that is wrapped around his middle, his hand grazing across it as he puts some distance between them.

"How?"

She whispers, her hand drifting forward to touch it but drawing back, her eyes rising to meet his.

"The queen doesn't seem to have many friends around here," he says, his eyes dropping to the ground, "A kind woman took pity on me and managed to patch me up. Quite umm, terrifying really with all her potions and such."

A nervous chuckle bubbles out of him.

"I believe I saw a crossbow."

He shakes his head and looks up at her and her mouth opens to say something, her hand drifting forward again. She wants to ask him a million questions. How do you feel? Does it hurt? How did you find me?

( _Why won't you hold me?_ )

( _Why don't you know me?_ )

She tries to speak but before she can, he smiles that soft smile again, the unsure one. The one where his lips curl slightly at the edges, his eyebrows rising as if to ask if it was alright to do so. His eyes appraising her reactions, trying to learn her.

"Apologies. I didn't mean to surprise you before, I just saw you and–"

He breaks off, his hand scratching behind his ear in an achingly familiar motion. But, the air between them is fractured now. Like she is looking at him through broken glass.

And suddenly all she can see is all the ways that he is not hers.

* * *

"You have to kiss him!"

Henry's voice is a fierce whisper as Killian stands at the entrance of Regina's temporary home, his eyes wandering about the small space coming back again and again to meet hers, looking at her in question. She hadn't told him where they were. She hadn't told him why they were hiding under a tree. She hadn't told him anything and yet. Even in this world where she is nothing but a strange woman he had met in a tower, he is there. Supporting her, standing by her.

The ache in her chest intensifies as she wonders why the thought hadn't occurred to her. All they need is a happy ending after all and there he was. Her love, her happy ending, standing not four feet away from her and she knows why the thought hadn't occurred to her.

She hates herself for it.

"Go on!"

Henry's hands push her towards Killian before he walks out the door, muttering something about keeping watch and joins Regina outside.

Killian's eyes widen as she takes a deep breath and steps closer to him.

"Killian, I just- I- "

She stumbles over her words and his face twists in confusion, his eyes looking over her with concern.

"Is uh, everything alright?"

She wants to break then, to cry, to let him soothe her, her skin thirsting for his touch but all she does is laugh. It is a pathetic thing, a hoarse noise from the back of her throat as her vision blurs again.

Her fingers slowly reach into his hair, her thumb brushing his cheek as she steps even closer. Perhaps she could pretend. Perhaps it would be enough.

"Is it okay if I kiss you?"

Her whisper is husky, her throat still sore somehow and it sounds inviting, seductive and she is glad that he can't hear the tremble hidden away in the back of her mouth.

He doesn't answer, but she sees the conflict in him. Even though he does not know her anymore, she still knows this part of him and it is a small comfort that no matter what, some things truly will not change. She watches him struggle, worrying about propriety, about honour.

As if those things matter now.

And yet, her mouth curves into a genuine smile.

"It's okay. I want to."

Her other hand grips the lapel on his vest, smaller than before and she idly wonders where his coat is. His eyes continue to search hers and she sees him coming to a decision, nodding once to acquiesce, smiling that same infuriating smile again.

(The one that makes her feel like she is a stranger to him.)

(She  _is_  a stranger to him.)

She kisses him then and immediately, it is all wrong. Even though his lips are the same lips, his warmth the same warmth. He is too tentative, his hand around her waist too soft. He kisses her like it is his first time and perhaps it is, so she is soft too. Her mouth pliant and open, waiting for him to learn her again, waiting for him to  _know_  her again but by then it is too late and nothing has happened. No great flash of light, no magic flaring out from their bodies.

They break apart with soft pants, their foreheads resting against each other. She feels his thumb coming up to wipe the tears off her face.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you get back to him."

* * *

The first night is difficult.

Sleep eludes her, the night too quiet and too dark. She has never been one to fall asleep easily but even as she had lain awake in her bed at home, there had been light filtering through the curtains to her room, filling it with a haze of artificial yellow. There had been sound. Of people going about being alive, quieter in the dark but still warm, comforting. The opening and closing of the refrigerator as someone moves downstairs in the kitchen, an errant car driving past below her window. David's gentle snores and Mary Margaret's soft groans of annoyance as she tries to sleep despite the sound.

She smiles at the memory, shifting closer to Henry who is tucked into her shoulder, her arm around him. She tries to remember the way that David would hold her, the weight of his hand. She tries to remember how it felt to have Mary Margaret smile at her.

It is already a battle, trying to separate the truth from the memories that had been put in her head. She doesn't know how long she had truly spent in that tower but her mind tells her that it had been years. She remembers the food, strange and bland. She remembers every inch of the walls. She remembers being intensely alone, her heart struggling with a thousand different realities as she tried not to forget. She remembers walking around the room, her fingers tracing the tiny dips and crests in the stone as she reminded herself of what she knew was true.

She does it again now.

_My name is Emma Swan. I live in Storybrooke. I have a son named Henry._

She looks down at him, his eyes closed, his breathing soft as he sleeps. She presses a kiss to his hair.

_He is alive._

_My parents are Prince Charming and Snow White. They love me. They have always loved me._

She breathes deep, swallowing down the lump in her throat as she stares up at the ceiling of their cave. She continues.

_Killian Jones is my- I have him. He loves me._

Her eyes squeeze shut as a stray tear escapes. She looks at him now over Henry's shoulder. He lies a little ways away but close enough that she feels his every movement in her gut, as though there is some sort of string connecting them. He keeps shifting in his sleep, trying to find a comfortable position, flinching when he accidentally nudges the bandage around his middle. Her hands twitch, her fingers yearning to soften the crease in his forehead, to run through his hair, to hold him to her.

But, she does not know if she is allowed.

_I have a family. I am not alone._

She holds Henry tighter to her chest, her hand compulsively stroking his hair, dropping kisses to his temple.

But, her eyes never leave Killian and she wakes with her hand outstretched in his direction, fingers reaching for him.

_I have a family. I am not alone._

He wakes with tousled hair and a rough voice and he is so much like her Killian, her chest aches.

But then, he smiles that same alien smile, looks at her with eyes that don't know her. She grips Henry's hand tighter.

_I am not alone._

* * *

He stays with them.

They never really talk about it. Nobody makes any declarations of loyalty or friendship. But he stays.

And Henry is overjoyed. His face had lit up with hope again as he'd told her that that the kiss hadn't worked only because Killian didn't remember her. Maybe if they stayed with each other long enough, he could remember. Maybe if they tried again, it would work.

(He would fall in love with her again.)

(She doesn't know how to tell him that it might not be him who needs to fall.)

(She doesn't know how to tell herself that a world might exist where she is not in love with Killian Jones.)

* * *

"Emma, get up! We have to go!"

She shoots awake at Regina's urgent whisper, her hand reaching out, looking for Henry but he's already standing near the door, pack over his shoulder. They had prepared for this. Packed little kits for survival and planned escape routes. So, even as her heart feels like it is about to beat out of her chest, she is steady in her motions, following Henry outside. They walk agonisingly slow, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to be detected by their pursuers but her heart still pounds a deafening rhythm as her eyes scan the area around their little group.

They walk single file. Regina leading, followed by Henry and Killian and she brings up the rear. She is glad now that she had insisted upon being last.

It eases her hammering pulse just a little, being able to keep them in her sight.

Her hands twitch with restlessness as they continue, looking for something to defend herself with. Her gun, a blade, _something._  They had been doing this for a week now, running from one hideout to another, from cave to hollowed out tree. Never stopping, never resting, trying to stay hidden. They hadn't been allowed many opportunities to go looking for weapons.

She misses her magic acutely, misses the low thrum of power running through her body, misses the warmth and safety that its presence had begun to make her feel. She has tried multiple times now to bring it back, searching under her skin for the familiar light but she never finds it. There is only her heartbeat in the darkness.

She wonders, now that the story was over, could her power return? Could the power of the author's quill eventually fade? Could everyone remem–

A twig snaps behind them and immediately, she finds herself pressing up against Killian. His arm comes around her as she pushes him closer to the tree that they are now hiding behind. Her eyes frantically look for Henry, darting up and down the path they had been following. She finds him crouching next to Regina behind a large rock. His jaw clenched, he nods at her to let her know he is alright.

She meets Killian's wide eyes then, his mouth open in surprise. He hadn't expected her to grab him like she did, she supposes and even though she knows that she should let go, that they should move on, she can't seem to bring herself to do it. They haven't been this close since they had kissed and god she has missed it. She has missed the weight of his arm around her waist, the feeling of his chest hair between her fingers, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to knee.

So, she lets herself have a moment, a tiny fragment in time where she can pretend that he is just on the verge of saying something suggestive, his lips just about to curve into that smirk, his tongue about to slip out to lick his lips.

But then, his mouth opens to say something and she breaks away brusquely, signalling to Regina that they need to move on.

(She allows herself to pretend for just a little longer.)

* * *

They keep walking in the same direction and she can now hear the faint sound of approaching horses, like low rumbling thunder. It is a constant noise, getting steadily louder and she knows that they cannot outrun them much longer.

She walks up to Regina and finds her fidgeting with her pack, reaching for her bow and arrow and pulling back again and again. She looks about as uneasy as Emma feels.

"How did they find us?"

Emma's voice is a whisper and even though she is fairly certain that her mother is following their every move, she wants to keep up the illusion.

(It seems it is all she does these days.)

"I don't know! They couldn't have possibly known. Unless, they've been following us, I–"

Regina breaks off, her hands rising in frustration.

"You know, I never had this problem before you lot came around, stomping all over the wood."

She meets Emma's eyes as she speaks and even though her words are sharp, there is no bite behind them. This Regina is different in that way, her words softer, more tactful. But occasionally, she makes a remark like that and Emma can't help but smile, happy to see the shadow of the woman from before, all fire and spark.

"Sorry, we can't all be good at–"

There is a noise behind them, a harsh shout followed by the rumbling of horses getting suddenly louder. She looks back and finds Henry and Killian watching a shadow at the end of the path. It is getting larger every second and she knows then that they have been caught. Her heart racing and her mind running through a thousand scenarios, she looks back to Regina to–

But, Regina isn't looking at her, she's looking at Killian who has now caught up with them, Henry by his side. He nods back, looking quickly behind them to track the shadow.

"Regina, what–"

"Emma, you have to go. I can distract them while you escape."

Emma's gaze moves rapidly between the Regina and Killian, a rapid unease building in the pit of her belly as she understands. They'd planned this. While she and Henry had spent the last week in a breathless rush to rewrite their story, locked in conversation with one another, trying to find a way for  _somebody_  to find a happy ending, they hadn't seen the way that Regina and Killian had gravitated towards one another. Two people caught in a story where they didn't know the plot and they had–

"Why are you doing this?"

Her voice is a soft thing, low and restrained as she feels her body grow heavy, the helplessness of the situation washing over her.

"Mom, we're not going to leave you. There  _has_  to be another way. We could–"

Henry's voice is strong but he can't seem to find the words, his hands taking Regina's. She softens then, leaning down a little so she can meet his eyes.

"I'm so sorry Henry. I know you believe that I'm your–," she blinks rapidly, her eyes beginning to shine "and believe me I wish I was. You are such a wonderful young man–"

Her eyes rise to meet Emma's over Henry's head.

"But, they're after  _me_  not you and trust me, there is no escaping this. The only way for you to finish your quest," she looks back to Henry, whose grip on her hands has tightened considerably,"for you to be  _safe_  is for you to leave with Killian right now."

Regina looks at Killian again, her face hard and determined. He moves closer, his hand rising to go on Emma's shoulder, freezing mid air. He is trying his hardest to appear impassive but she can see the fear, the regret in the tightness of his mouth, in the clench of his jaw. She shrugs him away with a quick jerk and faces Regina fully.

"Look, I know you think you're being noble or whatever, but we can't leave you. I promised you that I would help you find your happy ending and I'm going to keep that promise."

"Maybe the only way for you to do that is to find a way back to a world where it might be possible because here–"

Regina looks down the path, the rumbling of horses getting louder.

"Emma, please. Go!"

Killian comes closer once more, his hook on Henry's shoulder as Emma's eyes search Regina's.

"I  _will_  come back for you."

Regina only smiles, giving Henry one last hug, kissing his forehead before running towards the dark shape making its way towards them.

And as Killian leads them to whatever escape that they had planned, she wonders if this will be yet another promise she breaks.

* * *

It almost feels like before. Him, her and a boat.

And yet, it is nothing like before.

He does not stalk the deck with purpose, moving from one task to another, his steps in harmony with the ship's movements. He does not move as though he is part of the vessel they travel on, like he knows her ever nook and cranny, every scratched railing and loose floorboard.

He does not walk like he is at home.

Here, he is a passenger, just like her.

He had bought them passage to the Maritime Kingdom upon a trading vessel. Regina had insisted, he had said, that they leave Misthaven just in case she gets captured. Just in case she is forced to betray them.

And Emma wonders again if it is the story or if it is Regina herself, willing to sacrifice so much for people she had known but a week. And Killian–

"Sleep well?"

He comes to stand beside her near the railing, his legs moving with just a touch of a wobble as he grabs hold of the wood, a small laugh escaping him. A tiny, nervous half of a laugh. A sharp, self-deprecating inhale and she turns immediately back to the waves.

"Well enough."

"And the lad?"

Her eyes automatically look at the hatch that leads below deck. Henry had been up most of the night, and for the first time, he hadn't been speaking a mile a minute, concocting schemes to fix this, lighting up the room with the belief, the hope in his soul. Instead, he had been quiet, answering in monosyllables and gazing out the peephole in their quarters until the sun had begun to peer over the horizon. Eventually, giving in to exhaustion. He still sleeps and she feels the ache in her chest- almost constant now- grow.

He's lost so much and so often, She wishes she could take away every tear in his heart, every stab of pain in his gut. She wishes she could take it upon herself. She wishes she knew how to help him.

Killian must notice something because he moves just a touch closer.

"Regina is a capable woman. I am certain that she evaded our pursuers and is quite happily hidden again."

He does that little laugh again as she turns to face him, her throat feeling full. Even now, even when he doesn't know her,  _this_  hasn't changed, the way he tries to comfort her and she grateful for it. Misplaced as it may be.

She lets her mouth curve into a small smile.

"She's probably glad we aren't there making a ruckus and trampling all over her carefully hidden paths."

He laughs again and it is less anxious this time, a small chuckle of amusement. Their eyes meet and he sobers.

"Emma, I don't know if you and your boy are right and that there is another world out there where I am a man of courage and honour and strength. I don't know if we will be successful in returning you to your home. But, I do know this to be true," he moves his hand closer to hers on the railing, staring at the space between them.

He looks up again and for a second she could have sworn that it is her Killian is looking back at her from behind those alien eyes.

"I know that you are important to me, that your boy is important to me. I feel it in my heart," He laughs again and shakes his head, "even if I cannot explain it."

"And I know that I am not what you have wanted and I am not what you deserve. But please know, that I will do everything in my power to help you and stand with you as long as you'll have me.

She closes the distance and takes his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

"It was my parents’ house. I apologise for its condition. Nobody has lived here in years.”

They stand opposite a small house, tucked away into the woods but walking distance from the water. Weeds crawl all over its outside, a window is shattered, ripped curtains hanging from its edges. It is old and dusty and creaky. But, somehow, she feels safe here.

Perhaps it is the look on Killian’s face, the soft wonder with which he runs his fingers over the tattered furniture, the way his eyes don’t stop roving the walls, looking for memories long buried.

Perhaps it is the fact that no matter how their stories have changed, this might be where her Killian grew up too.

And even if he no longer remembers, these walls do.

* * *

She realises soon that his memories are blurred.

They are like echoes he says, always there but never clear enough to make out. Henry says that it is probably because the author only changed things that would affect the new reality that he had created, that his writing didn’t reach back far enough or wide enough to clearly define anything else.

It explains the way that Killian sometimes takes to wandering about the house as though looking for clues to fill in the gaps. He tries to tell Henry stories when he asks, begins telling a tale of Liam and him as children but just as he reaches the middle of the story, he seems to forget, his details getting more and more distorted until he finally gets frustrated and gives up.

It is as though he remembers the feel of the stories. The colours, the sounds and the scents. But, as soon as he tries to put it in into words, they are gone.

He sits on the couch now, holding a picture in his hand. A woman with flowing hair and sparkling eyes, laughing as she looks up at the artist. Even through the faded graphite, she can see the love and care that went behind every stroke.

He runs his thumb over the rough surface of the paper, his eyes closed as if trying to remember her through touch alone. The woman is his mother, he had said but he can’t remember her anymore.

And all she wants in that moment is to take him into her arms, let him press his face into her shoulder, run her hands through his hair. She wants to kiss him, to take the demons away.

But, all she does is stand in the doorway behind him, her fingers rubbing against her thumb, itching to touch but not knowing how to close the space between their hearts.

* * *

He begins to rebuild the house.

They had spent the first night on a clean patch of floor in the centre of the living room. Henry lying tucked into her side again with Killian across from them and just like every night before this, she had watched him until the exhaustion had taken over.

The very next day Killian had begun testing and touching, finding all the places where the wood had rotted away, marking it to come back to later. He had then gone into the nearby town-- a small port-- to look for new wood and furniture.

She had watched him but silently refused to help. Fixing the house felt like accepting that they were going to live here, like this was permanent.

(This wasn’t permanent. They were going to find a way back.)

(She has gotten very good at pretending.)

Henry is quiet, spending the day buried in his book and the night talking through all the ways in which they could get back. They could work on getting Emma’s magic back again. Go back to Misthaven, find her parents and try getting their memories back. Make more attempts to make Killian remember. Each plan sounding more and more impossible with every sunrise.

Her days are spent travelling into town looking for news and gossip from Misthaven, trying to find a ship that will take them back when they need it.

This is how it goes for three days. Their lives twisted together into a clumsy weave that only just manages to keep from tangling when one of them pulls too hard.

This is how it goes for three days and then she hears the news in the tavern. The Queen of Misthaven is to throw a fête. There is to be music and dancing and fireworks and the whole kingdom is invited.

There is a tinge of fear in their voices even as they discuss the details of the celebration, talking in hushed tones as someone asks what all the fuss was for.

“Haven’t you heard? She finally caught that woman, the bandit. The one she’s been chasing for well, as long as I can remember, really.”

Emma begins to help Killian rebuild the house.

* * *

Henry stops sleeping well. His nights filled with tossing and turning, waking up sweaty from nightmares.

He has refused to deal with the fact that Regina might be gone. He spends his days looking for clues in their stories, trying to find ways to get her back but wakes every night with his skin burning, his heart racing. Her arms go around him, her hand brushing his hair back, whispering nonsense reassurances until he curls into her and falls back to sleep.

It takes him ten days before he lets himself cry, his shoulders shaking as he presses his face into her chest, her own hand trembling as she strokes his hair, kissing his head again and again.

She finds a few of her own tears mixing with his, her chest and her throat feeling overwhelmingly full from the tears she has not yet let fall. She has to be steady for him, for the little boy she can see through the tall young man, through the strong voice and the tight hugs. She needs to be his rock, his anchor and though she is trying so hard to be that, it is difficult when she feels like she is adrift on an unknown sea.

She holds him until he falls asleep from exhaustion, his breath even, his body relaxed. She stays with him, looking down at the way his face has finally lost the tightness of the last few days, the lines on his brow (too soon, too young) finally softening.

She watches him sleep for an hour before the panic in her own belly takes over. She feels her breaths getting shallow, nausea settling in to the space between her ribs. Her arms wrap around herself and it is not enough, she needs him.

She needs him so much, she can’t breathe.

* * *

 The house has two bedrooms, one where she and Henry sleep and one for Killian, a living room with a table and a little fireplace for cooking. Herbs hang from the ceiling and a shelf with whatever food they had managed to gather and trade from town stands on the side. Soft fabrics bring colour to the room. Thrown over the table, the couch, they had been gathered from cupboards in the bedrooms, carefully dusted and cleaned.

It has only been two weeks and already the place looks lived in. Little signs of their lives littered about the rooms. Her vest hanging by the door, Henry’s borrowed coat left over the couch, Killian’s boots lined up next to hers and Henry’s.

One day he’d come out with a pile of clothes, dusty just like everything else in the house, but he’d held them with reverence, his hook taken off, his hands gentle. Offering them to her for Henry, he had stumbled through an explanation of how they’d been his brother’s but might fit him, his own clothes too small because he’d been far too young when they’d lost–

(He never does talk about his mother. His words are faltering and his voice cracks every time he tries.)

She had accepted them gratefully, trying to speak but it was as if all her words had disappeared into the lump in her throat. So, she had only squeezed his hand in thanks and hoped that he understood.

She feels a pang of _something_ in her chest now, as she runs her fingers over the smooth glass of the window. It had been in pieces when they had arrived.

He is rebuilding his home for them, shifting and changing it so they could fit.

And yet, all _she_ can do is notice how the curve of his smile is different, his voice too fumbling, his hand too soft, his manner too hesitant. It is like looking at a distorted reflection, a shadow in the evening sun, extended and twisted.

She hates herself for it everyday.

But tonight, tonight she is tired and she is afraid and she has forgotten what it is like to be loved by Killian Jones.

She just wants to remember.

* * *

His room seems strangely empty. The cheerful paintings of flowers that hang in every room missing from here, the colourful fabric thrown over the furniture gone. His bed is a small thing, tucked into the corner of the room.

He isn’t sleeping either when she enters.

The sliver of light from the candle in the hallway lights his figure sitting hunched on the bed. He stands up, rod straight as she walks to him.

“Swan? Is–,” he frowns, his hand rising and falling as he clears his throat, “is everything alright?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, pretending, always pretending, that he had come to her as soon as she’d opened the door, cupped her cheek in his palm and stroked her skin with his thumb. That he’d kissed her forehead and whispered to her that everything would be alright. That he had just _known_.

But when her eyes open, it is him and it is not. He looks at her with his brow furrowed, confusion and concern etched in his face.

And she doesn’t want to stop pretending, so she kisses him.

* * *

He doesn’t fall with her right away. It is a small comfort that no matter what happens, he is still a man of honour, he still respects her, he still–

But, when she presses soft kisses to his neck, her arms wrapped tight around his waist, running up and down his back. When she whispers to him that she needs him, tells him to _please_ just hold her, he stops resisting.

* * *

 Just like before, his warmth is the same warmth, his lips the same lips and yet.

He does not know her.

He does not know the scar in the centre of her chest, the ink on the inside of her wrist. He has not spent hours brushing his fingers against it, listening to her tell the stories of the marks that make her. He does not know the tiny line of raised skin on her palm, where a thorn had cut her and he had made it better. He does not know that that was not the last time that he had healed her.

He does not know her.

And she does not know him.

His skin is softer, smoother. He is not hurt and marked by the battles that made _him_. There is no ink on his forearm, no trace of the woman he loved for centuries. No trace of his unwavering loyalty, no trace of the strength in his bones, the will in his heart.

She does not know him.

But, she has gotten very good at pretending.

* * *

He hovers above her, their bodies bare as his hand moves in her hair, trailing down its length. His arm with the hook lies at his side, as far away from her body as he can keep it. He hadn’t taken it off, his hand shaking as he had stopped her from unbuckling the harness that held it but now, he refuses to touch her with it.

She had never had this with _him_ , never had the time, the opportunity. But, she wonders if he would have been as afraid, of hurting her, of baring himself before her. She reaches for the metal, running her fingers over its cold curve before slowly bringing it to her chest, letting it run down between her breasts.

He sighs, his head dropping to watch cold of the metal against her skin, her body arching up to meet it. His hips drop just a touch and he brushes against her centre, drawing a strangled moan out of her, her eyes closing as her hips move too, searching for his heat against hers. When she looks up at him, his eyes are wide, his face slack, his lips parted. The tips of his fingers brush along her lower lip, his forehead falling to rest against hers.

“I’ve not heard a sweeter sound in all my years."

Her eyes squeeze shut as his adoration seems to fall around her like a blanket but instead of warmth, she only feels the itch of guilt. The sinking in the pit of her stomach that reminds her of what she is doing, how she is deceiving him and suddenly she can’t face him anymore.

She pushes him off her gently, her mouth curving into a slow, sultry smile at his surprise.

Her eyes give her away though, laced with her desperation, her helplessness, her guilt. She had hoped, some mad distant thing, that he would know. He would know just like her Killian had always known that something was wrong when she smiled at him with only her lips. But, he doesn’t, his hand reaching for her skin as she turns away from him.

She pushes the thought forcibly out of her head, focusing on the heat between her legs, on her heart beating faster in anticipation. She turns around, on her hands and knees, looking over her shoulder and biting her lip as if in invitation. He only smiles, the flush in his cheeks turning a deeper red as his tentative hand brushes against the new skin revealed to him, venturing deeper between her legs to just barely graze her wetness, his hook running gently down her spine. Her heart sinks, the ache in it intensifying when he begins to press kisses along her back, not noticing, not knowing that her every smile rang false, her heart beating for another man.

When he slides into her, slow and unsure, just like everything else; her eyes close, hands clutching at the sheets beneath her as she tries to forget. Tries to forget the eyes that had looked into her very soul, seeing the deepest, darkest parts of her and loving her anyway. Tries to forget the way he had said her name, called her love, darling, _Swan_ ; like a caress, like a kiss.

She tries.

But, when she finally lets the pleasure take her, the name she says on a broken moan is _his._

* * *

She wakes with his arm draped loosely around her waist, his face in her hair. They are pressed together on his tiny bed and she is surrounded by him, his chest hair brushing against her back, his thigh trapped between her legs.

The sky is only just beginning to lighten, awash in blues and oranges through the window across from her. Her body feels heavy, her mind relaxed. She sinks deeper into the mattress, deeper into him, just about drift back to sleep when he shifts and the arm around her waist turns.

She sees his unmarked skin and it all comes crashing down on her.

And suddenly, the bed is too small and he is too close and this was the first time that they had-- and it wasn’t even _him_ and she can’t look at him.

She can’t breathe.

* * *

What they don’t tell you about loss is this. It is not a thunderclap, a sudden strike of lightning, your life changed utterly in a moment. It is not a flash of metal, a piercing of leather, a splash of red.

No.

It is more like a house falling brick by brick. It is like the sinking in your stomach when he pulls away from you uncomfortably when you hug him. It is like the ache in your ribs when he smiles at you and you notice that his mouth is curved wrong. It is like cataloging every difference in your mind until all he is, is a list of reasons that he is not _him._

(It is like wandering around a wood in a land not your own trying to remember his real smile.)

What they don’t tell you about loss is that once the cut is made, the piece of your heart gouged out of your chest, there is no fixing it. There is no going back.

There is only living with the scars.

* * *

The sun is now high in the sky and she is still barefoot in the woods. She knows that she should go back, that Henry is probably looking for her but she can’t seem to turn around, moving forward and forward until she reaches the river.

The water sounds like a song and her heart begins to beat to its rhythm, slowing and calming. Her feet are damp, caked in mud, the hem of her pants ruined. She collapses by the river bank, letting her feet and her hands dip in to the rushing water. The cold makes her gasp and just like that, her tears begin to fall.

She cries with body wracking sobs, her arms wrapped tight around herself as she sways back and forth. She cries for the family she has lost. She cries for the mother she will never embrace again, the father she will never see laugh. She cries for the little brother she will never get to know. She cries for her love. The man who had scaled the walls around her heart, who had helped her knock them down brick by brick. She cries for his touch and his kiss, his hand holding hers, his smile. She cries for the way that he had looked at her, like she was the most precious thing he had ever held. She cries for the way that he had known every inch of her broken, bandaged heart.

She cries and lets the water wash it all away.

(She stops pretending.)

* * *

Henry runs at her as soon as she comes into view of the house.

“Mom! Are you alright?”

She feels the guilt in her belly grow. Henry had just lost his grandparents, his mother and then she’d–

She holds him close, her hand cradling his head tucked into her shoulder. She murmurs apologies into his ear, holding him tighter.

“I’m sorry kid. Just had a bad night,” she pulls away to look at him, forces some approximation of a reassuring smile onto her face, “Won’t happen again.”

“Hey, it’s fine. Just, next time? Tell me before you run off into the woods, ok?”

He’s grown up so much, her kid, looking at her with such understanding in his eyes. Understanding that is far beyond his years and even though her first instinct is to crush him to her chest and protect him from everything that has allowed him to understand and _know_ the deep sadness that now lives in them both, she is proud of him.

She is proud of who he has become.

“Promise.”

She smiles at him, genuine this time, pulling him in to drop a kiss on his forehead and ruffle his hair. He squirms and she laughs and for a moment, it is like before.

“Killian’s worried about you. He hasn’t stopped pacing since he woke up,” he says as they walk back to the house, her arm around his shoulders.

She feels her stomach sink, unease falling across her shoulders as she tries not to imagine how he would have woken up, his hair tousled and the vestiges of a smile still on his face.

(She hadn’t looked at him before she’d left. She hadn’t noticed the lazy smile on his face as he’d slept. She hadn’t.)

She tries not to think about the way the smile would have fallen when he hadn’t found her in his bed, in his home.

She only grips Henry’s shoulder tighter and walks inside.

* * *

There is a small makeshift hut in the garden behind the house. Killian had built it. It isn’t much, just a roof on supports. But, it stores all the things they need to rebuild. It is filled with piled up planks of wood, tools that he had bartered from town. It holds the half finished pieces of furniture that he had begun working on. It holds the little bags of seeds, the shovel for the overgrown garden that she is slowly breathing back to life.

(It holds the books of notes written in a careful hand, page after page filled with delicate drawings of vegetables and fruits and flowers, with notes on their properties and how to grow them. His mother’s, given to her with a nervous laugh and barely steady fingers when she had asked how she could help.)

It is a quiet and awkward affair, when they work together. It is not the perfectly synchronised dance from before. They do not sense one another’s movements the same way, bumping arms and hips and elbows as they navigate around each other. 

 

But, even as she feels the urge to leave the space as soon as she can, the sight of the half finished bed that sits in the hut ( _“It’s for the lad.”_ ) making her heart pound against her ribs, he seems to gravitate to the small enclosure, spending late evenings in it, working away. She watches him from the kitchen sometimes, the muscles in his back rippling with the effort of sawing and chopping and hammering, his thin shirt clinging to his skin. It is easier to pretend when she cannot see his face. When she cannot see his eyes that look at his work like they would help him remember. All the things that he is supposed to be. All the things that he is supposed to have. 

Sure enough, she finds him there now, sitting on a crate inside, his hand running through his hair.

(He tells her later that it had felt like a place of his own, something that he had _built._ That it felt more safe and more real than the house they lived in with all its almost memories.)

He must notice her or sense her or something because he is standing in front of her before she can make it halfway across the garden. His hand rises, to caress her cheek perhaps, but falls away before he can make contact. His faces twists into confusion as he watches hers.

“Emma?”

It is the first time he has used her name. She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a breath, trying to hide the tremor that runs through it. Her eyes open and she looks down at the patch of land that she had cleared to his left.

“We should get to work. I’m just going to–“

He is not hers, she tells herself. He is not hers and he deserves better than this. He deserves an explanation, an apology but she is too weak and she is too frayed at her edges. So, she does what comes easily.

She runs.

Walking to the hut to gather her tools, she tries to ignore the way his eyes follow her, his face falling into defeat, his shoulders sagging.

“As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So any guesses on what happens next? :D 
> 
> Part 3 coming soon! Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

 

They fall into a routine. Building, sowing, growing their little corner of this world.

They fall into a routine that is perfectly designed to avoid one another as much as possible. In the morning, when Emma checks on her garden, Killian works on the house. Henry stays with him and helps and she is glad that Killian has someone to keep him company, someone to listen and talk to. _Someone_ , since it cannot be her.

In the afternoon, he disappears into town while she and Henry clean out another one of the house’s many cupboards and shelves. They find old books, well-worn and read often with their spines bent and their pages filled with notes. They find clothes, moth-eaten and full of holes but some salvageable enough to be put back into use. They find sheets and curtains, baubles and knick knacks but they never find anything that would hold a clue to Killian’s past. No diaries, no paintings or letters.

Nothing to tell them the story of the man who had grown up here. Either version of him.

He comes back in the evening, having traded his services in town in exchange for food. The house fills with the smell of freshly cooked stew. Sometimes soup and bread, sometimes grilled meat and vegetables. They cook together, dancing around one another, trying their hardest not to accidentally touch, not to look in one another’s eyes for too long, not to make any contact that forces them to have a conversation longer than a few sentences.

They are getting quite skilled at small talk.

Henry has noticed but hasn’t said anything. She catches him watching them walk up and down the kitchen area while he sits with his book at the table. He follows Killian’s back as he stirs their dinner, lowering his eyes to the pages as soon as Killian makes to look at him. She wonders if he watches her the same way, with that pensive look on his face. His eyes considering, his lips turned down, comparing them perhaps to the versions written in the stories.

The brave pirate and the fiery princess, slowly falling in love in the midst of heroic adventure and daring deeds. A far cry from the people who stand before him now.

A man who cannot remember and a woman who cannot forget.

The house is quiet when they eat together. Sounds of cutlery with occasional mumbles from Henry as he tries to make conversation are punctuated by heavy silence that fills the distance between their hearts. She feels his every movement like a physical pull in her belly, calling for her to go closer. But she can’t.

She can’t pretend anymore.

One day, as she sits at their table, Henry asking Killian some question or other about sailing, their quiet murmurs filling the air, she realises that she hasn’t heard him laugh since before that night, only ever seeing his tight, anxious smiles and his downcast eyes. Her heart grows heavier in her chest and suddenly, she cannot eat anymore, her breath caught in her throat.

She excuses herself hurriedly. Kissing Henry goodnight and putting her dishes away, she nods in Killian’s direction before racing back to their room, all the while trying to hide the tears that lurk behind her lashes.

She wonders sometimes what Killian sees when he looks at her. Blurred at the edges, a phantom of a person come into his life, claiming him for herself. She wonders if she looks wrong to him too. Perhaps he would have preferred someone sweeter, someone less broken. Someone whose kiss didn’t sting and leave blood on his lips. Someone whose touch didn’t chafe him, who’s eyes didn’t look through him, looking, always looking for someone else.

But, sometimes he looks at her like she is something divine, something come to save him and she isn’t sure which one hurts more.

* * *

 

It has been what feels like days since she had begun sifting through the pile of sailing books that they had found in one of the storage spaces in their bedroom. The dust and the heat of the day are beginning to make her feel like she is trapped in a small box, oppressive and sticky.

She looks over at Henry who seems to have given up on his pile, lost in the pages of one of the books. Her lips curve into a fond smile, ruffling his hair as she gets up off the floor.

“I’m going to take a walk, kid. You’re ok?”

He makes a distracted humming noise, his hand coming up to touch her wrist as she pulls away.

She leaves the house with the smile still on her face.

* * *

It is a hot, hot day. The sun beating down on the world, relentless in its assault. The trees look sad almost, their leaves drooping gently, the occasional wind from the ocean perking them up as if enjoying the respite. She makes her way to the market in town, looking for something cold to keep her insides from catching fire.

She is just about to pay for her purchase when she spots him. He is standing next to a woman in a blue dress, her head covered by a scarf, a basket in her hand. And the first thing she realises is that he is laughing. She can hear it, a low rumbling sound from somewhere in his stomach as his eyes sparkle with mirth.

She feels it like a punch in her gut, like all the air escaping her lungs in a whoosh.

The woman’s hand rests on his forearm as she leans in close to say something to him. She watches the tips of his ears go red, as his hand comes up to rub at his neck, a laugh bubbling out of him once again.

She almost doesn’t hear the shopkeeper as she hands her the drink, her hands shaking as she accepts the mug.

And even though she knows that she should leave, that she has no right to–

Her eyes are drawn back to him as though like a magnet.

They are smiling at one another.

(She has to stop by the river to wash her face so Henry doesn’t see the redness in her eyes.)

* * *

She can’t stop thinking about it, imagining the scene in her mind again and again until she isn’t sure anymore what is true and what she had embellished.

She cannot tell if he had leaned into the woman’s space, leading with his hips the way _he_ used to when he was flirting with her. She cannot tell if the woman had been staring at his lips the entire time. She cannot tell if he had–

It doesn’t matter, she tells herself, it doesn’t matter.

He is not hers. She has no right to expect anything of him, to expect him to tie himself down to her after the way that she had pushed him away. She has no right.

But, then why does it hurt so much?

* * *

Killian finds her when she has got a trunk open in front of her, clothes haphazardly thrown in as she tries to keep the sobs trapped in her throat from escaping. She has managed to be quiet despite her pulse hammering away in her throat. For Henry. He can’t see her like this, not now. He hasn’t noticed anything yet, having moved out to the garden to read.

Killian finds her just as she is trying to figure out with how she is going to tell him.

“Are we, uh going on a trip, milady?”

He hasn’t said her name since that morning either. He should be able to say her _name_.

“No, just Henry and me.”

“What-- Is something wrong?”

She turns to face him and he’s looking at her with those alien eyes again, concern swimming in their depths. She takes a deep breath. Her voice needs to not quiver when she says this.

“Killian,” already her voice is trembling," I-- you deserve better than this. You deserve to be able to live your life the way you want to, with whom you want to. It isn’t fair that I expect you to stay with us, when I–"

His brows scrunch into a frown.

“I don’t understand. Have I done something–”

She interrupts him before he can apologise, before he can push the knife in her gut even deeper.

“I saw you today. With that woman and you seemed _happy_ and you haven’t laughed in so long Killian. I don’t want to be the person who-- it would be best for both of us if I left.”

His eyes search hers and she wants him to fight for her, to scream and shout and tell her that it is only ever going to be her, that he remembers everything, that he loves her, loves her, _loves her._

She wants it with every inch of her selfish heart.

“Is that what you want?”

She can only nod dumbly in response.

“But what about your reality, are we not–”

His hand rises as if to gesture but falls away when can’t seem to find the words. She blinks back more tears before answering him.

“Yes. But, you’re not him.”

She can almost _see_ the walls rising in his eyes, so much the same and yet so different. He nods at her once, walking closer and slowly pulling one of Henry’s pants out of the trunk, placing it back on the bed.

He is close enough now for her to notice that his scent is different. No more surrounded by the smell of the ocean and clean soap, he smells like wood and earth and the sage they keep between their clothes to keep them fresh. It is another tiny ache in her chest, another thing to mark away as not _him_.

His eyes are fixed on the fabric, his fingers running over it before his hand falls back to his side.

"I will be gone by morning. I can find a place for myself, a ship or boat like before,” he meets her eyes, tilting his head to the side, smiling a sad smile at her and she feels the lump in her throat grow.

“But you and Henry, you should have this—“ he clears his throat, his eyes wandering the room before coming back to meet hers, "You’ve made it come alive again.”

She wishes later that she had stopped him. That she had had the words.

But she only watches the hunch in his back as he leaves, listens to the sound of the door clicking closed.

(The sound of her heart breaking.)

* * *

Henry finds her sitting amidst the pile of clothes on the bed, her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling. He doesn’t say anything, just sits beside her, his arm coming around her and she thinks again how unfair life is being, how unfair _she_ is being to him.

She is supposed to be the strong one, the parent, the person who keeps his world steady and together even as it sways and shakes. And here she is shaking in his small arms.

“I saw Killian leave. He hugged me goodbye. Mom, what happened?”

His voice is soft as he rubs her back in soothing circles. She straightens. Wiping at her tears hastily and trying to smile, she turns to look at him.

“It’s nothing. We just–“

Deep breath.

“Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

His eyebrow goes up then, his mouth in a tight smile that says, _Are you kidding me? I know you’re lying._

And it is like looking in a mirror. She lets out a little bark of a laugh, her hand coming up to take his at her shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do, Henry. I–“

She shrugs her shoulders, her eyes falling to the floor.

“You should go talk to him,” he says as he ducks his head so his face is level with hers, “Mom, I know he’s not our Killian but–“

She turns to meet his eyes. She doesn’t know when her Killian had become Henry’s Killian too. She lets go of his hand, moving hers around his shoulders to pull him to her.

"I still care about him,” she finishes his sentence.

Her hand moves to his hair, ruffling it again before kissing his forehead.

“You’re too wise for your age kid."

“I learned from the best.”

He pulls away from her, grinning and pulls her to her feet.

* * *

She goes to the docks.

Walking along the water, she looks for him in the throngs of people walking, eating, laughing. It is sunset and the world is slowly getting dark, people gravitating towards the brightly lit, warm and inviting taverns.

She has no idea where he is, her stomach doing flips every time she spots a man in a black vest with messy black hair, plummeting every time she realises that she is wrong. The impending darkness is making it hard to see and it is not for the first time she wishes that they had cell phones in this world.

She keeps walking along the water until she reaches a quieter part of the docks, opposite some sort of office. It is free of crowds and that is where she finds him. His legs dangling over the edge, his hand clutching at a large bottle.

Her breath finally calms and her relief is like a physical thing, falling over her shoulders like a warm blanket. But then, she freezes not knowing how to approach him. Not knowing what to say.

She forces herself to walk forward until she is standing beside him, dropping down to sit. He looks at her in surprise, his mouth opening to say something before shutting when he realises who she is.

“Room for one more?” She asks, her voice low and cautious, the sentence ending with her eyebrow rising, a small smile on her face.

His eyes are bright as he looks at her, taking a long pull from the bottle before turning back to stare at the ocean. It takes her a second to realise what is wrong, that she’s never seen him like this before.

"Are you drinking? Aren’t you allergic? "

She feels pinpricks of worry as she looks at him closer, checking to see if he is alright. She moves to do _something_ , she isn’t sure what, touch his shoulder? Take the bottle away from him? But, before she can complete the movement, he pulls it back to his chest.

“Oh no, you’ll not take this away from me too.”

Her hand stops its progress at his fierce mumble, freezing in place near his chest before she pulls it back to her side with a jerk. He straightens at the movement, seemingly just realising what he had said.

“I-- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–”

“No, you’re right. I deserved that.”

He sighs, his head dropping as he places the bottle behind him.

“Even so. I apologise.”

He clears his throat, looking up at her, “That was uncalled for.”

“No, I’m the one who should be apologising.”

Her hand rises again to touch him, falling away again. Touching _him_ had become so easy, a language for them to communicate in that didn’t involve her having to stumble through words far too clumsy to ever be enough. But now, it is as though this man sitting beside her is written in a foreign language and she does not know how to speak it.

“She was an old friend. I think we uh, grew up together but I can’t be certain.”

His voice is stronger now, steadier.

“Were you two–?”

The words are out before she can think through what she is saying, before she can decide if she wants to know the answer. But, he laughs. That self deprecating chuckle and shakes his head, turning to face her.

“No, you are the first woman I’ve ever–”

The smile drops off his face as he searches her eyes, his face earnest and sincere.

"I know I’m not what you want Emma. I can see your eyes looking through me when you see me.”

Her mouth opens to answer, she thinks, but what could she say that would make it better?

He smiles a small smile and looks away from her, his eyes going back to follow the movements of the waves. The night is bright under the full moon, his face soft under its light.

“I _want_ to be him. I wish I could remember how to be brave.”

His voice is softer now, wistful and her hands twitch again. She needs to touch him, a hand on his forearm, going lower to take his hand; their fingers tangled together. She wants to apologise, to tell him that it doesn’t matter, that it was unfair for her to do this to him.

But, perhaps he is not the only one who has forgotten how to be brave.

“I don’t know what to do. It kills me that you don’t see me,” she wonders if she’s imagining the shudder in his breath, “I wish I could leave. I wish I had the courage to tell you how much it hurts–”

He laughs, small and sad and shakes his head.

“Perhaps you are right and there is no good to be had with us–”

He swallows thickly before looking back at her.

“–together. But, gods help me, I can’t stay away from you.”

His hand grips the edge of the wood so tight, his knuckles are white with it and just like that, he looks like her Killian. She has seen this look on his face before. The same sincerity in his eyes, the same slight upturn at the corners of his mouth.

The same devotion etched into his skin.

She touches him then, knowing that her words would never be sufficient to explain the storm pulling at the edges of her mind. She takes his hand in hers, moving closer until their shoulders touch. The warmth of his skin leeching through their thin shirts. They had found his coat in one of the shelves, dusty just like everything. But, he had only worn it once, his face falling as he had walked around in it.

He had said that it didn’t quite fit.

He looks older now. Like these last couple of months had aged him by a century and she hates that it is her who has done this to him. She is the reason that there are now lines on his forehead, that there is roughness in his hand. She loves her Killian. She loves him so much her every breath rings with the echo of his name but she does not want to cut and break and mould the man beside her until he fits the hole that _he_ left behind.

She looks away from him, her eyes on the hand in her grip. She brings it up to her lips, trying to get her fingers to stop trembling, and presses a kiss to the cold of his rings.

Her eyes meet his, and for the first time, she sees him. She sees all the ways in which he is different. She sees all the ways in which he is the same. She sees his strength, his will and his courage.

She sees how they are quiet in him.

He is not the man who had fought a thousand demons, including his own, to win her heart. He is not the man who had travelled across time and realms and curses to find her. He is not the man whose every heartbeat feels as though it is beating in time with her own. He is not the man who has lived, been broken and put back together more times than he can count, whose soul is as patchwork as her own.

No. He is softer. He is the man who had stood beside them, who had given them his home, his _life_. He is the man who is made up of almost memories and misplaced love. His strength lies in his steadiness, his will in his solidity in the face of uncertainty, his courage in his unwavering devotion to people who were as good as strangers to him. Even though he is not the man she is in love with, he _is_ hers.

As she is his.

She leans up into him, his nose brushing against her cheek, his eyes fluttering shut along with hers. His breath is warm against her skin and she can _feel_ his deep sigh when her lips meet his.

It is kiss of apology, of regret. It is a kiss of almosts.

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice is a sigh.

“I’m sorry too.”

Her head rests against his shoulder, their hands still entwined between them.

“I just want you to know that you’re,” her voice seems to give up on her and she turns her face into his shoulder, breathing in, “the one I want to want. But I—”

She lets go of his hand, turning to face him, her eyes wandering his as she searches for the words.

_I see his shadow every time you move. He haunts my every dream. I cannot shake the ghost of his touch from my skin._

He almost smiles then but it is a sad thing, his eyes taking her in. His fingers rise to graze her cheek, barely there, falling away almost immediately.

“It’s alright. I understand. You can’t love me because well,” a chuckle,” you love _me_."

She lets out a wobbly laugh as she pulls away completely, her hand reaching behind them for the bottle.

“I think we could use a drink."

They sit together then, until the streets clear, until the moon is the only thing that lights their sky. They sit until they slowly drift apart from one another’s orbits and the bottle behind them empties.

They sit until it stops hurting.

(“Come home?”)

(“Aye.”)

* * *

She wants to say that it gets easier but she isn’t sure that it does.

Perhaps they just get used to it.

* * *

He gets sick from the ale.

His skin clammy and his heart fast, he lies in bed with his hand to his stomach, sipping on the potion she had fetched for him. She wishes she had a pill and some soup, a prescription perhaps, something she understood. But no, it had to be a swirling green concoction handed to her by a woman at a cart piled high with bottles in a thousand colours, herbs with heady scents hanging from the top of it.

He holds it now as Henry reads to him. He had insisted, digging up a book of poetry from one of the piles they had uncovered earlier. She watches them. Henry’s voice low and serious as the words roll of his tongue and Killian’s eyes closed as he listens to poems about coming home.

And despite the alienness of it all, it is as though her heart begins to settle, beating steady and calm in its space behind her ribs.

He comes home one evening with a long package tucked into his side, apart from his usual bags of bread and meat. He gives it to her with a mumble of thanks. ( _"For caring for me when I was ill.”_ ) She unwraps it, a gasp escaping her as she uncovers a sword hidden in the brown fabric, its blade shining in the light of the fire. It is a beautiful thing, all sleek lines and sharp edges. The grip is wrapped in leather with some sort of metal thread running through it, giving it a dull shine as she turns it in her hand. The pommel is jewelled, studded with little emerald stones. She runs her fingers along its length, still astounded by the fact that he had bought this for her.

“Killian, how much—"

He shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the blade.

“It doesn’t matter. It reminded me of you and I just wanted—“ he shrugs, smiling at her. His fingers dance along the pommel of his own blade hanging from his waist. It was an old thing they had found in one of the rooms and had cleaned and sharpened. He believed it was his father’s, he had said, his hands running up and down the decorated sheath, or perhaps his brother’s. But, he couldn’t be sure.

“I was wondering if you could perhaps, uh,” he laughs nervously, “teach me how to use this?"

She smiles.

Teaching Killian Jones how to use a sword is a strange experience to say the least. They stand in the garden on an overcast afternoon. It had rained earlier that day, the world smelling of wet earth, a slight chill in the breeze. Henry stands opposite Killian, his sword drawn as he follows her instructions. She is teaching him the techniques that _he had_ taught her with his hand covering hers, his breath upon her neck, his warmth at her back. It was a memory she treasured, a small moment they had stolen away from the world. But now, she keeps her distance choosing to direct him in his movements as he spars with Henry. Watching him now, it almost as though she can see _him_. A shadow following Killian’s steps, his sword steadier, his posture straight.

They continue successfully for a while. His movements are sloppy but passable as he builds up a sweat, his shirt beginning to cling to his shoulders in the humid air. But eventually, he loses his balance in the middle of a complicated block that involves him turning in place and his sword drops to the ground, his hand reaching for Henry’s shoulder to keep himself upright. It is so sudden and so comical that she has to slap her hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing. But, it escapes anyway. A little burst of amusement that has both Henry and Killian, still struggling to stand steadily, look back at her. Their faces are still twisted in surprise and her laughter bubbles out of her until they are laughing too, dropping down to the wet grass, their swords lying at their sides.

Later when they plod back inside, still fighting the occasional burst of the giggles, their clothes wet and muddy, she ruffles Killian’s hair along with Henry’s before she goes to clean up.

(She doesn’t notice the little smile on his face, his eyes lit with joy as he watches her go.)

* * *

Her plants begin to bear fruit.

Vines laden heavy with tomatoes, cucumbers. Peppers in red and yellow and green dotting the leafy plants that bear them. Little bunches of herbs, thyme and basil and rosemary popping out of the earth. It looks truly alive for the first time.

They spend the day picking their produce, carrying it inside and discussing all the ways they could cook tomatoes as the number of crates brimming with them just keeps growing and growing. Henry requests onion rings at the first onion he sees and she can’t help but laugh, hugging him close and promising to figure out some sort of recipe. Killian looks confused even as he smiles at their conversation and as Henry explains the wonders of fried food, she walks a little distance away. Trying to push away the memory of _him_ bringing her grilled cheese and onion rings at the station. The feel of his hand rubbing her back, the way his smile had lit up the room, the way her cheeks had hurt from her own smile. Her fingers run over the bark of the tiny apple tree, still far too young to bear any fruit as she tries to ground herself.

Not today. Not now.

Not now, when this place is finally beginning to feel like home. Not now when she is supposed to revel in the wonder of having made this, of having _grown_ this.

No, she will save this memory, tuck it away in the back of her mind to dwell on later.

“Mom! Potatoes!"

She chuckles, wondering how Granny would react if she knew that Emma Swan— somehow manages to burn toast Emma Swan -- was going to be spending, potentially the next week figuring out how to make onion rings and fries. She joins them, a laugh on her breath as Henry continues Killian’s education on modern food, his words frantic, his gestures wild as Killian watches in barely concealed amusement.

They spend all evening cooking. Killian is far better than she is at it and when they finally manage a crisp onion ring, she almost hugs him in her joy, her shout of triumph and his happy laugh filling the air. But, they stop short of one another, arms outstretched, smiles slowly falling from their faces before suddenly, Henry is there snatching the onion from between Killian’s fingers, breaking the awkwardness of the moment.

“Hey! Bad form, lad!"

But, Henry is too far gone, his eyes shut in bliss as he tastes this little bit of home.

Working together feels easier now. They move with the ease built of living with one another. Raising their arms laden with food as the other ducks beneath them to get something, flattening themselves against the table while the other moves around them. When they finally sit down to eat, they pass each other plates heaped with all their experiments, cringing at the more disastrous ones and praising each successful one with increasing extravagance. Words like exquisite, magnificent, awe-inspiring, dazzling are thrown about as Henry and Killian try to win this inadvertent game they had started.

It is only when Killian calls a tomato slice sublime, resplendent in its crimson blush as he speaks directly to it in a deadpan voice that Henry finally admits defeat. His shoulders shake in silent laughter as Killian watches him with a fond smile.

His eyes meet hers across the table and she raises her mug to him.

_To new memories._

* * *

Not all days are that easy though.

Some days when she wakes up in the morning and sees him with his wild hair and soft eyes, she has to look away. He looks too much like _him_. His every step, his every gesture feels like it is followed by a shadow of him, correcting it. Standing slightly taller, his movements just a touch deliberate, his smile laced with a little mischief.

On those days she feels like the walls of the house are closing in around her, boxing her in until she forgets what his voice had sounded like. On those days, she takes a walk.

Henry has learned when she needs this, sometimes pushing her out the door himself with a call to come home for dinner.

She wanders the wood, touching the rough barks of trees, running her fingers over leaves, taking off her boots and curling her toes into the earth as she remembers him. She tries to ground his every memory into the tangibility of the forest that surrounds her.

She presses his smile into a hollow of a tree that stands by the river, its leaves hanging over the water. She remembers the heat of his skin as she runs her fingers over the gnarled roots of the tree she sits under. She traces his laughter into the chill of the flowing water as she dips her hands in it. She makes sure every memory of him lives in this earth, these trees, this water in this place that has become home.

And when she is finished, she goes back, her heart a little lighter, her breath coming a little easier.

* * *

One evening as they sit by the fire after a particularly well-cooked meal, Killian asks to hear his story.

“I just wanted to learn about the man I was—“ he frowns, “-am? Something."

Henry runs to fetch the book as she continues to stare at him and she realises that she had ever seen her Killian this way. This light of heart, this free with his affection, this easy with his soul. He is not weighed down by three hundred years of stories. He is not weighed down by loss and pain and the constant fear of losing the people he loves to some new evil.

It is a thought that hurts and heals in equal measure.

Henry returns and they soon realise that their book does not contain much of Killian Jones’ history, focusing mostly on his life after he had met the saviour. So, she begins to fill in the gaps.

She remembers the evenings they had spent by the water, sitting on their bench as they told each other stories. Her eyes are stuck on the coiling flames of the fireplace as she recounts the tales he had told. She remembers his wistful smile as he had talked about Liam, his face hard and impassive as he had spoken about his father, his head falling into her lap as he had talked about Milah and Bae and his mother, her fingers running soothingly through his hair. She remembers him holding her close, letting her breathe him in as she had falteringly recounted her history with Neal, as she had talked about Henry’s birth. She remembers the weight of his arms around her, making her feel safe as she had opened old wounds to show him that they had existed and that he was not alone in his own.

And Killian in front of her listens. He listens to every word she speaks and asks for more.

It becomes a ritual.

Emma and Henry tell Killian all the stories they can remember of themselves, of the people they love. They tell them to him every night after dinner in the warm glow of the fire, the air filled with low murmurs and sudden bursts of laughter as they describe all the moments and adventures and experiences that had made them.

That had made him.

And he keeps them alive. He keeps their stories, their histories safe in the blank space where his own are supposed to live.

* * *

It is a bleary, cold morning when he wakes her, his hand shaking her shoulder as she bolts upright, her hand reaching for the blade by her bedside. He never comes into her and Henry’s room so her first thought had been that–

“Easy, nobody is in danger. Apologies, Swan I didn’t mean to— I just—"

He stumbles upon his words and his face comes into focus, her eyes finally adjusting to being awake, she sees the red of his complexion, the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, his hand still scratching at is ear and she can’t help but smile. She slips out of bed quietly so as not to disturb Henry and walks up to him.

“Why am I awake so early, Killian?"

Her eyebrow rises in question, her mouth curving into a smirk as she watches him struggle to answer. His mouth opens and closes multiple times as he tries to find the words, eventually just giving up and holding out his hand.

“Would you allow me to show you?"

His eyes shine with excitement, sparkling in the early morning light and her hand fits easily into his.

* * *

“What do you think?"

He stands beside the bed, his arms behind him, his chest puffing out as he takes a deep breath, waiting for her reaction. But, she is stunned, her fingers running along the edge of the footboard, deep brown with the edges carved to resemble rope.

Henry’s bed. It’s finished.

She walks around it in awe, running her hands over all the little details. The curve of the lettering that forms his initials. The tiny flowers in the posts that rise from the corners. The small compass carved into the centre of the headboard, her fingers lingering on the carving of the letter “N”, tracing it again and again.

“So that he never loses his way, even when he’s asleep.”

He is standing behind her as he watches her discover all the ways in which he loves her son. Her hand reaches behind her to take his, squeezing it tight.

“The house is finally complete as well. There is not a broken floorboard in the place."

She laughs at the pride in his voice, her own chest swelling with it for him. She turns to look at him, her other hand taking his hook as she meets his eyes.

“Thank you. So much, Killian. For everything."

She could swear then, that his smile lit the world better than the sun peeking over the horizon. She can’t help but answer with one of her own. He bends forward to press a chaste kiss to her forehead.

“Always."

Her heart rings with truth then, when she realises that no matter which realm or universe or time they found themselves in, Killian Jones is her soulmate.

And even though in this world, she could never be _in_ love with him, her soul still crying out for the man they left behind, she loves him.

He is family.

(Not all love is about grand declarations and true love’s kisses. Some love is quiet and steady and solid. Some love is friendship.)

(And it is enough.)

* * *

There is something to be said of almost happy endings, she thinks as she watches the fire on a chilly evening.

Blankets cocoon both her and Henry’s bodies as Killian pokes at the flames to make them last longer. They all wear variations of the same lazy smiles, their bodies pleasantly sore after a morning spent weeding the garden, getting rid of older plants and planting new seedlings, their little green stalks rising from the packed earth. They’d gone down to the docks in the afternoon, spent the rest of the day in town, wandering the markets and eating strange and wonderful things until they had staggered home with full bellies and full hearts.

There are still days when all she can do is retreat to her wood and hide under _his_ tree until she can breathe again. There are still nights when Henry wakes from nightmares, his mother’s name on his lips. There are still days where Killian gets frustrated with the fact that he cannot remember the family that raised him, the life that made him. But even so, their makeshift, poorly put together, creaks when it moves too fast, family, is happy.

Her heart still aches for the people they have lost, but the ache has dulled somewhat. Her splintered memories softened by the new ones they had made here. The walls of this new home echoing with their laughter and tears. It has been a few months and they are changing, all of them. Her hands are growing calluses from her work in the garden. Henry is on the verge of speaking at least two new languages with all the reading he does. And Killian. Killian can now spar with the best of them.

She smiles as she remembers their last session earlier in the week, when he had finally disarmed Henry successfully and Henry had hugged him, their whoops of joy ringing through their home.

There is something to be said of almost happy endings, she thinks as she sits surrounded by warmth and love. Her arm around her son, sleeping soundly against her shoulder, healthy and happy. Her other hand reaching for the man sitting by her side, the man who will always be by her side.

She falls asleep surrounded by family.

There is something to be said of almost happy endings.

* * *

She wakes on tarmac.

When her mind first breaches consciousness, her first thought is to remind Killian to take a look at the floor because it feels far too uneven. But, then she realises that the bright light in her face is the sun and someone is shaking her awake.

“Mom!”

_Henry!_ Henry is shaking her awake and she sits up immediately, her hand going to his shoulder as he helps her stand.

“What–?”

“Mom we did it! We’re back home!”

He releases her to hug Regina who has just begun standing on shaky feet as well. She is still in shock as she watches them sway with the force of their hug and then suddenly she is running.

* * *

She finds her parents awake when she bursts in through the door of their house. She cannot stop the way her eyes shine and her hands shake as she pulls them into a hug. She savours the joy of being held by her father again, his hand stroking her hair. She drinks in her mother’s smile, pure and happy again.

But, god, she needs to see him. She needs to–

“Where is he? Where’s Hook?"

“He was there,” David points at a spot by the counter, Henry’s book lying on the floor, “right before we got dragged away."

“Everyone reappeared where they were before this whole mess started."

The panic in her gut grows as she walks further into the apartment and he isn’t _there_.

“No—"

Her voice is a thread as she feels it come back, the need for her to run into the woods and find the river to sink her feet into, to find him because he isn’t here, he isn’t–

“Yeah, sorry about the mess. I really needed to find that book and I’m usually a bit tidier."

She swears she can feel her smile split her face in two as she runs into his arms.

* * *

Her hands keep tracing his face.

She runs her fingers along his nose, his cheek, his jaw. She leans over him in her bed, bending occasionally to drop kisses to whatever skin she can reach. His arms fit around her waist, his hand going up and down her back, eventually slipping under her shirt so he can feel her skin against his.

But, for the most part, they are content to look, to trace every line, every curve and dip in each other’s faces, bodies. It is as though a puzzle has finally clicked into place. His smile is perfect, curving at just the right angle, his eyes looking at her with all the knowledge of their history together, his hand knowing just where to touch.

Her vision begins to blur with tears as her forehead drops to meet his, her eyes closing.

“I missed you. So much, I missed you."

“Aye, me too my love.”

She laughs, a watery chuckle as her tears begin to stain his cheeks.

“I haven’t heard you say that in–”

Her eyes open and his are bright too, shining with his own tears. He tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear before rising up to run his nose along her cheek, his mouth hovering just over hers, their breaths mingling.

“I feel like I have waited an eternity to kiss you.”

“Why are you still waiting?"

His lips meet hers, his arm tightening around her waist as he flips them and suddenly she is on her side. Their smiles bump together and she feels like she is on fire.

(She has spent a lifetime without him but now he is here and she can finally breathe easy.)

* * *

His finger traces the roughness of her hand as they stand together at Granny’s watching the joy and relief on people’s faces as they reunite with the ones they love. She turns her face into his shoulder as his arm shifts to come around her to accommodate.

(It feels so good to be able to do this again. Her heart singing at the smoothness, at the ease with which they move with one another again.)

(This is the moment she remembers later, just as the darkness takes over the edges of her consciousness, taking him away from her once again.)

"I miss him,” she says after an extended silence. Even though she doesn’t elaborate, he understands immediately.

"Seems being jealous of myself is a skill I need to cultivate.”

Even as she bumps his hip with hers, rolling her eyes, another piece of her heart slips into place. She looks up at him, placing a kiss under his jaw, unable to control herself now that she _can_. Her smile softens as she takes him in, her love, her Killian. But, she can’t help but feel a pang for the man who had stood beside her all these months, the man who had become her family.

He sobers when he sees her face, his hand coming up to press her head closer, dropping a kiss in her hair.

“He was a good man.”

“He is."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! I just want to say thank you to all the lovely people who have left kudos and reviews. Thank you so so much. This fic has been a labour of love and I have so so loved telling this story.
> 
> Again, thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> So, there will probably be 3 parts to this. I've been super excited about this idea for a while now! Basically exploring what would have happened if Emma and Henry had gotten stuck in the AU.
> 
> Thank you for reading and let me know what you think! :)


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